


Oranges and Lemons

by rawnbones4 (iKain2)



Series: Oranges and Lemons: Reeves of Lunden [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Headcanon, Historical References, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Major Illness, Not Beta Read, Stowe-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:54:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27734155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iKain2/pseuds/rawnbones4
Summary: "Yes, I've found Stowe, and he's found me, and... and here we are... together."Or: the winding path to how a brawling orphan raised by Christian priests fell in love with a Danish viking.
Relationships: Erke/Stowe (Assassin's Creed)
Series: Oranges and Lemons: Reeves of Lunden [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2025985
Comments: 16
Kudos: 111





	1. CHAPTER 1 – Year c. 851, THE BATTLE OF ACLEA

**Author's Note:**

> I am not great at history or religion (and Assassin’s Creed’s timeline is insane) so please forgive me for inaccuracies. It's not 200k words, but I tried.
> 
> Also: For Stowe to be in Lunden during the late 800s viking invasions, at the age he is, and having turned from the cloth for some reason? That was not a good time to be a Christian Anglo-Saxon – I am surprised he is such a cinnamon roll, somehow.

“Here comes a candle to light you to bed, and here comes a chopper to chop off your head! Chip chop, chip chop, the last man’s dead!” Children shrieked in laughter as they played in the streets of Lundenwic, dirt-streaked hands interlinked as they sang, reforming the archways made by their arms.

“Gotcha! Make the line, the lot of you!”

Stowe, hardly older than five winters, dodged the attempt at catching him by one of the older children, too fast for her. He grinned as he and another young boy made it out from the tunnel of arms that dropped to catch the others playing along.

The bells of the nearby church tolled, the children paying no heed as they sang – it was a fact of daily life for all of Lundenwic, ringing out the hours of the day.

The bells kept ringing faster and faster, the dissonant tones clashing into each other with each strike of metal. A pair of guards ran by, their pikes raised up. The whites of their eyes were visible even through the holes of their helmets, sheer terror the only expression on the faces as they shouted at the top of their lungs.

“RUN! SOUND THE ALARMS! THE VIKINGS ARE HERE! THEY’VE COME UP THE RIVER THAMES, HUNDREDS OF THEM—” The shouting guard choked, gurgling on his blood and spit as an arrow lodged itself half-way through his throat.

Immediately, carts and stalls were overturning as people screamed, trying to get out of the way. Stowe was shoved to the ground by a hooded priest running through the churchyard he and the other children had been playing in front of.

The boy scrambled to his feet and ran as fast as his little legs could take him back towards the direction of his home, knowing the narrow streets as well as he did the back of his hand. A frightened horse nearly kicked him in the head as its rider – a guardsman – was ripped from its saddle, taking off quickly. The guardsman was immediately stabbed through the belly by one of the city’s invaders.

A fur-cloaked woman stared at him with foreign blue-gray eyes. Blood dripped from her sword, lit by a backdrop of flames that roared through Lundenwic’s houses and churches. Frozen in terror, Stowe’s lips wobbled as the viking took a step forward—

A woman’s shrill scream of his name pierced the clamor of the fighting and the dying surrounding him, and Stowe ran.

“Mum!”

His mother was on the ground, thrashing against the frame of a large man – not an invader, but their neighbor, Eadgar. The man was trying to rip something off of her, and Stowe charged forward, his hands latching onto the straps of the bulging traveling pack strapped to his back as he kicked into the man’s side. A flap of fabric tore open, used silverware tumbling onto the dirt ground.

Their neighbor was a looter!

“Get off me, boy!”

Stowe went tumbling off, cheek reddening from the fierce slap that had him falling off. The man shouted in pain, his hand fisted in his mother’s hair – she had bit his arm hard enough to make him bleed. The man dragged her closer to the flames, and she screamed again as the air turned sharp with the scent of burning flesh.

Stowe scrambled to his feet, about to charge right back in, when he felt something sharp whip by the side of his head, just shearing the tips of the hair on his head. He watched as a sword flew by, as if guided by divine providence, before striking the man on top of his mother in the chest. A large shadow overcast the boy as the invader from earlier stalked past him, reaching the man quickly and tugging his sword out from his chest with a sickly sound. The man slumped, dead, and Stowe’s mother immediately scurried back away from the foreigner. Her dressed was ripped, and the skin the entire left-side of her body was whorled and blackened.

Stowe ran to her, seeking solace in her arms. Whatever happened, he would go with his mother.

The viking woman said something in a guttural accent Stowe could not understand. Stowe’s mother looked up at the invader, her eyes wide, before she got to her feet and started running away from her burning home, clutching her boy tightly to her chest with her working arm.

Stowe buried his face into his mother’s neck, eyes squeezed tightly closed as men and women and children died in screaming masses to both swords and flames. They reached the church closest to them – Saint Paul’s – and the priests were ushering people up their steps into safety of the abbey.

“Stowe, love, are you hurt?” When she finally was able to sit down, all-but collapsing onto the flagstone floor next to a group of equally-terrified women, she took stock of her child.

Stowe shook his head, still pressed close to her. “No, mum.”

“O, thank the Lord.” His mother exhaled heavily in relief, closing her eyes. Her head tipped against the top of his, and with one final kiss brushed against his soot-blackened forehead, she went still.

“Mum?” Stowe looked up into his mother’s peaceful face. “Mum?!”

* * *

Jarlskona Bodil watched as the Saxon peasant fled the scene of her burning home, child tucked safely in tow. She turned to the smoldering corpse of the looter and the bag of silver that had fallen.

Next to the bag was a silver ring, almost hidden in a small puddle of blood. She scooped it up, examining the tarnished silver for a moment before tucking it into her side pocket. At the sound of the horns calling for them retreat back to the longships, she hefted her sword over her shoulder and walked away, leaving the flames to consume the ransacked city.

Later, during the feast held by Halfdan Ragnarsson to celebrate their hastily plundered spoils from Lundenwic – they had called for a strategic retreat as the armies of King Aethelwulf of Wessex drove them away back to the shores – the Jarlskona called her youngest son over to the dining table of their longhouse.

“Erke.”

The boy looked up at his mother with their shared blue-gray eyes, his young face sour despite the festivities. He had not been allowed to join his mother or brothers during the raid, having only seen six winters by this point. No boy was ever keen on being left behind when there was glory to be had, but he understood why, at least. “I have a gift for you.”

“What is it, mother?”

“Hold out your hand.”

“There may be glory in battle and riches to be won, but everything has a cost.” The Jarlskona dropped the silver ring she had picked up in Lundenwic into Erke’s small hand. It was still stained with blood. “Only take on what you will fight to protect with blood and fury, when the time comes.”

Erke turned the tarnished silver prize around in his fingers. It was much too large for him to fit onto a child’s hand, but it was definitely a fine piece – someone had crafted it with love in mind. An inscription in the Saxon’s English was written on the inside, but he could not make heads or tails of what it meant. He looked up at his mother, nodding curtly.

“You are a good boy, Erke. Now, go and have fun – you think far too much for someone so young.” Fondly, the Jarlskona ran her fingers through her son’s hair once, like one would feel growing grass underneath their palms, before shoving him gently aside.


	2. CHAPTER 2 – Year c. 860 THE SHEPARD’S FLOCK

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls, for my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” Stowe read aloud from the gilded pages of the church’s prized prayer book, his voice strong and resolute.

At the tender age of 13, his ability to read and write in both English and Latin had improved in leaps and bounds thanks to the tireless efforts of the priests that raised him and the other orphans of Lunden underneath the roof the Lord. Despite his diligence and hard work as one of Lundenwic Abbey’s potential laymen, he was still as skinny as a rake and a head shorter than the other boys. 

“Perfect recitation, Stowe.” Father Osberht, a priest well into middle-age, praised the boy warmly and rested a hand on his shoulder. “You have turned into a fine lad, keeping up with your readings.”

The door to the apse opened, and another layman – a loyal altar boy by the name of Cynric, two years older than Stowe – entered. “You called, Father?”

“Ah yes, Cynric, come in, come in.” Father Osberht’s hand on Stowe’s shoulder tightened. “Close the door, if you would kindly.”

An uneasy feeling stirred in the pit of Stowe’s stomach as Cynric came up the short steps. He was dressed in his altar robes, whereas Stowe was still in an old pair of common tunic and trousers since he had gone out to help a Brother in the stables earlier. The older boy’s face was stony as he stared at Stowe.

“Both of you are the best of my house, and I have no greater pride. I would like to reward you boys with something special. Cynric, you know what I am talking about.”

Cynric smiled, a cold, deadly thing as he grabbed Stowe by his tunic and shoved him against the altar.

“W-what are you—!” Stowe grappled back, lashing out at the other boy. “Stop!”

The boy’s fingers hooked into hem of his tunic, dragging the fabric up. Stowe wriggled out after getting in a good kick to Cynric’s knee. The older boy cried out and crashed to the ground, holding his bruised leg.

Father Osberht grabbed his arm in a tight grip before he could run. The man’s eyes were calculating, not at all like his usual self, as if a mask had fallen away to reveal a harsher truth. In his free hand was a leather flogging whip used by some of the Brothers during their scourgings for repentance. “Now, calm down, Stowe. This is a gift bestowed unto you in the house of the Lord.”

“I-I don’t want this!” Stowe furiously tugged at his arm, trying to break the hold. “Father, why—”

Cynric’s body crashed into his, pinning his legs down. The shadow of the Father loomed over him and the tails of the whip brushed against his fingers as he scrambled for purchase against the slick stone floors.

“You may wish to tell another of what I will do to you here, but who do you think will the flock believe: a boy, or a priest?” Father Osberht’s calm warning cast a chill down the boy’s spine as the whip raised.

* * *

“Dear child, are you injured?”

Stowe blinked tiredly as a woman’s unfamiliar voice filtered through the haze in his head, before immediately shoving himself deeper into his hiding place not far from Saint Paul’s, eyes wild as he bared his bloodied teeth. The pain from the bloodied gouges in his back was nothing compared to the primal terror that crawled underneath his skin at the presence of an adult.

“Ah, I see.” The woman got onto her knees, setting down a small wrapped parcel that smelled distinctly of bread and cheese. “No worries. If you need anything at all, you may find me at the basilica.”

Stowe listened as the footsteps headed away from him before stopping. He peered out from his hiding hole, watching a hooded young woman kneel down next to another child sleeping nearby, feeling at their forehead.

The woman turned, looking at him with eyes that burned like coal. A wooden cross dangled from her neck.

“Who are you?” Stowe rasped. Even talking hurt.

She got to her feet, brushing some dirt off the knees of her garments.

“I am Sister Frideswid. If there is any ailment you have, I would like to help you recover, little lamb of God.”

Stowe uncurled a fist and took up the parcel of food, the hollow in his stomach churning at the possibility of a meal. He crawled out from the hole and then stood up, as his back as straight as he could as he clutched the food to his chest.

“No priests.” Stowe licked at his cracked lips, feeling the bruise on his cheekbone smarting.

Sister Frideswid smiled as she held out a hand. “It is only us Sisters at the basilica. You will be safe in our home.”

With bruise-blackened eyes, Stowe took a step forward.

* * *

The medicine stung at his wounds and made his eyes water from the strong stench, but within a few days of skulking about the basilica, Stowe could already feel the raw, new skin forming over the gashes that Father Osberht had left him with.

“You are quiet, child.” Sister Frideswid glanced over at the dark-haired boy as he watched her tend to the sick and injured. He had been her little shadow for quite some time, always staying a fair distance away but watching with a curious interest.

“Why do you burn a needle before using it?”

“There are things in the world that one cannot see, but can wrought untold harm on the body, much like the humors. We are made of simple pieces, so fragile at times. Easy to break, difficult to mend.” Sister Frideswid placed the needle over a candle’s flame, watching the metal turn red-hot. “This is so that when I sew up this guardsman’s wounds, he may yet have a chance to recover without falling ill from infection. He may live another day, or the Lord may call him home tonight. Only time will tell.”

Stowe watched the Sister thread the needle and then push it into the man’s skin, the ragged hole in his side closing up slowly as she worked. The man’s pained groans quieted into shallow breathing as the nun continued her work, heedless of her audience of one.

After she had cleansed her hands of the blood staining it, she turned to Stowe. “Did you know that the Lord gave us a tool that can heal the soul?”

“What is it?” Stowe was curious, now. He looked at the bottles and tools she had at her disposal.

The nun smiled as she slid a hand over Stowe’s hair and then leaned over slightly, pressing a kiss to his forehead, much like a gentle mother would. The wooden cross dangling around her neck bumped against his nose. “A touch like this, at the right time, is like receiving the blessing of the Lord. Use it wisely, little shepherd.”

Stowe blinked, confused at her words, but the Sister Frideswid simply chuckled at his dumbfounded expression. “I will teach you how to prepare bandages in the morning. I may have use for you yet.”


	3. CHAPTER 3 -  Year c. 865 THE PRIDE OF LONDON

The untimely death of King Aethelberht of Wessex and the coronation of his younger brother, Aethelred the First, brought little stability to Lunden as whispers of an impending great horde of Danish vikings swept across all of England. A line of Saxon Governors installed in Lunden did little to ease the tension of the citizenry, mostly holed up in the villa in the center of the city.

“Master Hamme!” Stowe, having survived to see his eighteenth winter and shot up like a weed in height, called down from his perch above the old farmer’s barn roof. “Your hogs will live to see another harvest!”

The bearded man squinted up at the patched hole in of the pigsty, hands on his hips. “Hmm… better work than last year. You are getting quite good at this, Stowe. I’ll have you work on the chicken coop tomorrow then, yeah?”

The young man slid off the roof, landing in the mud with a squelch against his boots. “I’m always happy to help out, Master Hamme.”

“Now, if only my granddaughter would learn some sense from you!” The farmer snorted, holding out a small woven basket and a wrapped parcel. “My wife insisted I pack you some food to go along with your payment – the Lord knows you need some more meat on your growing bones, skinny as a twig you are!”

“Bless you, good sir.” Stowe grinned as he took the basket and peered inside. Several small loafs of bread, a few apples, and a goodly hunk of cheese sat inside. The wrapped parcel he did not need to open – he already knew what was inside. He waved goodbye at Master Hamme and jogged away into the center of Lunden, dodging carts and horses with ease as he headed towards the marketplace.

“Gyda!” A young woman peddling grilled fish looked up at the call of her name, a soft smile coming to her lips as Stowe came up to the stall. A young girl clinging to her mother’s skirts stared owlishly at him. “Good morning! And good morning to you, Regna!”

“Good morning, Stowe!” Gyda handed over a bit of fish, fresh from the grill. Ever since she met the young man at Sister Frideswid’s basilica, who had so kindly helped her through the difficult birth of her daughter with his prayers throughout the night despite not being of the same faith, she considered the young man like a son to her. “Running errands for the Sister today?”

“On the way to her now, actually. I have a gift for your little Miss here.” After eating, Stowe handed over the wrapped parcel.

Gyda opened it and found a pair of lightly-worn shoes for her daughter. They were large enough to last at least a year, if not longer. “I couldn’t possibly—”

“Your Regna is growing fast, of course she needs new shoes.” Stowe crouched down to the height of the girl, smiling warmly. “Be good for your mum, little lamb?”

The girl stuck out her tongue at him, much to her mother’s absolute horror.

Stowe laughed as he waved off Gyda’s apologies and stood back up. “Well then, I’ll be off, Gyda. I’ll ask about that mixture for your husband’s leg aches.”

From the market, Stowe made his towards a place he knew was frequented by a handful of orphans, penniless widows, and the lame. The old ruins were said to be haunted by the restless spirits of its Roman dead, so most steered clear of it unless they absolutely had nowhere else to go, but Stowe found it charming in its antiquity and mysterious hideaways.

The faces of a few familiar children ran up to him, their smiles bright despite the sallowness of their cheeks. “Stowe! You came back!”

“I promised, didn’t I?” Stowe knelt down, opening the basket. “Here, Edgar – I know your sister loves apples, so I made sure to ask for some.”

The dirt-streaked child looked down at his feet, his eyes nervous as he bit at his lips. “Hilda said she was too tired today, sir. I can’t get her to walk, an’ I can’t carry her—”

“Take me to her.” Stowe quickly distributed the other food he was carrying to the other awaiting children, saving two apples for Edgar and his sister.

The child led Stowe to the hovel he shared with his sister. The sight of a young girl not much older than Edgar trembling underneath a ragged blanket, set his blood aflame.

“May I check your injuries?” Stowe carefully crouched down next to Hilda, whose tear-streaked face pulled at his heartstrings.

The girl nodded, uncurling her leg from underneath her. The entire limb was bruised and the bone of her shin was sticking out, the mud-crusted shape of a man’s boot stamped on her skin.

Stowe held back a hiss as he looked to Edgar. The girl did not look well at all. “How long has she been like this?”

“Since a few hours ago, Stowe. When we passed by the alehouse, one of the drunks kicked at her when she wouldn’t go with him.” The boy looked about to cry.

“We will need to get her to Sister Frideswid quickly.” Stowe picked up the girl as gently as he could, trying to jostle her leg as little as possible. “Come, Edgar.”

As Stowe and Edgar made his way through the old ruins, other children joined along upon seeing Stowe carrying the girl. The journey to Sister Frideswid’s basilica was a long run even when using his knowledge of the shortcuts within Lunden, but the orphans helped cut down on the travel time by shouting at people to clear the way, darting in and out of the crowds like little mice.

By the time he arrived at the basilica, Stowe had a trail of children following him, either curious about the place or worried for Hilda.

One of the nuns at the entrance gasped at the girl, who was as pale as a bedsheet. “Sister Frideswid! There is a child needing your help!”

Sister Frideswid appeared, an angel at the archway with her hands clasped together as if in prayer. Instead of her wooden cross and rosary, around her neck was a metal medallion. “My shepherd returns, along with his flock. Come, bring the girl inside. We do not have much time.”

Stowe placed Hilda on a free bed, already on his way to cleansing his hands in a basin of water so he could help the Sister treat the girl’s leg.

An hour later, Stowe emerged from the basilica. He found Edgar dozing against the archway, who quickly sat up when he noticed the older boy.

“Is my sister okay?”

“She’s resting.” Crouching down, Stowe rested his hand on Edgar’s shoulder. “Where was the alehouse? Do you remember what the drunk looked like?”

“Down by the Crepelgate. The man… he uhm… he had red hair and—oh, a nasty scar, like a meat hook over his nose.” Edgar chewed at his lip as he looked inside the dark basilica, unsure.

During his errands around the city, helping out the citizens wherever he could, Stowe heard a lot about a red-haired man with a meat-hook scar over the past few weeks, and it was usually spat with vitriol and disgust: a vile small-time bandit leader by the name of Uhtric Three-Fingers, beholden to no kingdom. Despite the man and his gang scaring the farmers for supplies and battering around the locals for sport, the current Governor had turned a blind eye to the troubles of the peasantry and left them to their own devices. There was a small bounty on the man’s head, but so far no one had come to collect on it and the man was growing bolder as time passed.

“I know the place. Go and keep watch over your sister. She will heal better with you by her bedside, I promise, Edgar.” Cupping the boy’s head gently between his hands, Stowe reached over to press a comforting kiss to the child’s forehead. Then, he nudged the wide-eyed boy to get inside, who had raised a small hand to where Stowe had touched with a wondrous look on his face.

Stowe headed towards the old Crepelgate. The area was one of the rougher parts of Lunden thanks to the steady stream of drifters coming in and out, so Stowe had little trouble finding a rowdy alehouse that was serving a red-haired man with a hook-like scar over his nose.

The man was not quite piss-drunk yet, but within a few more mugs, he probably would be.

Stowe went up to the man. “You there. Did you come across a young orphan and her brother earlier?”

“I come in a lot of young orphans these days.” The man sat back in his chair, belching loudly. The two other men at his table, his friends quite likely, laughed as they drank from their mugs. “What’s it to you, boy?”

“I don’t know where you’ve come from, sir, but Lunden is not that kind of city. I’d advise you to do your business and leave.” Stowe stood his ground, crossing his arms across his chest and glaring down at the man.

“Stowe, leave the men be.” The alewife tugged at the back of Stowe’s tunic, her eyes flickering between them nervously. She was more than familiar with the stubborn boy who kept coming back time and time again to throw out rowdy drifters who tried to take advantage of a widowed alewife or leave without paying their fair share. This time, however, she feared greatly for his safety – this customer was not a town drunk, but an actual bandit who has killed for less.

“You fancy yourself a reeve, boy? Hah!” The man stood up, wavering on his feet. He shoved Stowe with one hand, only managing to move him a half-step back. “Lads, we should show this little piss-pot what happens when you cross a real man!”

Stowe took the element of surprise and decked Uhtric across the face before he finished his sentence, right over the man’s scar.

In response, a three-fingered fist swung in Stowe’s direction, sloppy and easily redirected into the head of the man’s friend, knocking him out cold. He ducked underneath the follow-up, using his momentum to shove the unbalanced man forward as he unlatched the man’s shoddily-made belt with deft fingers. The man tripped over his loosened trousers, banging his head against the sturdy bar counter with an almighty thud and then falling to the floor of the alehouse, unconscious.

The last man lunged at Stowe from across the table, but he managed to wrap the belt around the man’s outstretched arms, latching it across his wrists tightly. With one solid kick to the chest, Stowe swung the man towards the bar counter, smashing him face first into it, and then kicked him down on top of Uhtric Three-Fingers.

Three troublemakers. Three bodies for the guards. One bounty to collect.

Stowe shook out his hands and rubbed at his wrist. He’d almost lost control at the last moment and could’ve probably broken a finger had he been any slower, but it seemed the Lord was on his side for this brawl. Turning to the horrified alewife, he grinned brightly. “Call the guards. I’m sure the bounty on his head would be enough to fix the crack in the wall in time before the next spot of rain.”

The alewife gave him an incredulous look, her hands going to his shoulders and shaking him lightly. “You are a very stupid boy, but a good one, O Lord.”

In the distance, the chiming of the bell rang to signal the start of a new hour. He gave the alewife a parting wave as he headed back towards the Sister Frideswid’s basilica.

Halfway there, the bells began to toll again, but without stopping. A handful of guards, fully-armed with pikes and shields, several on horses, hurried past him. Stowe’s blood ran cold. When he got to the steps of the basilica, it seemed like half an army was at the steps. A large crowd of Lunden’s citizens had gathered noisily at the edge.

The current Governor of Lunden was at the front of the procession, sitting tall upon his armored steed as he spoke. The crowd quieted to a hush immediately. At his neck, Stowe recognized the same medallion that Sister Frideswid had taken to wearing.

“A great army of heathens from the north has darkened the doorsteps of our lands, pillaging our homes and killing our people. King Aethelred the First has declared all able-bodied men to serve in his armies to defeat this invading force. Settle your affairs, men, and make for the forward camp at Croindene by tomorrow’s sundown. Repel the heathens, and the Lord will be pleased to see his lands safe. Hide from your duty, and you will see yourself drawn and quartered as a coward for all to see and consigned to an eternity in Hell.”

The man bowed his head to Sister Frideswid, who anointed his unsheathed sword with blessed water and said a prayer for his soul. The silent crowd parted to make way for the man and his procession.

As the crowd dispersed, Stowe made his way over into the basilica’s interior.

“Sister Frideswid!” The woman turned around at the call of her name, her eyes alighting on Stowe as he rushed in. “How is Hilda?”

“The girl is fine, just resting with her brother.” Sister Frideswid touched a hand to Stowe’s cheek, but her eyes were distantly focused on a point beyond him as she spoke with a strange smile on her lips.

“That is good to hear, Sister.” Stowe quickly made the sign of the cross. “I will leave tonight for the forward camp, but I wanted to say my goodbyes first.”

Sister Frideswid’s strange smile did not abate as she made the sign of the cross as well. “May God’s blessings go with you, little shepherd. I will tend to the injured as they come home, and find more ways to fix our simple pieces.”

Stowe headed over to the corner where Hilda and Edgar were resting, tucked up against each other. He set the remaining apples on the bedside table next to them, murmured a prayer over the children, although quietly as to not wake them, and then left the basilica.

He made his rounds to Master Hamme to let him know that he would not be able to repair the chicken coop tomorrow.

“Godspeed and take care, lad.” The bearded man had said, clapping a hand onto Stowe’s arm and squeezing once. His service in a war beyond Stowe’s years had rendered him crippled in the leg and thus unable to join the army this time, but he did give Stowe his old sword. “Stay out of trouble, you hear? It’s a different world outside of the city. Oh, and bring extra socks if you can, or you’d freeze your toes off – advice from an old man who has less toes than fingers nowadays.”

“Understood, sir, more socks.” Stowe patted the sword hanging from his hip, a wholly unfamiliar weight, and then made haste towards Gyda’s home to bid her farewell.

Gyda’s fishmonger husband – a Saxon man also lame in the leg, but from falling off a horse a year ago – gave him an old coat to keep him warm on the road towards Croindene.

Gyda sent him packing with enough dried food to last him for at least a week. “Don’t go being a hero, you hear me? Lunden needs her Stowe back as soon as those heathens are gone.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll be back before you know it.” Stowe adjusted the coat around himself. It was much more thickly padded than he was used to and colored as dark as a monk’s habit, but it would definitely keep him warm.


	4. CHAPTER 4 – Year c. 869 WHERE PATHS CONVERGE

Stowe learned many things while serving in the war against the Great Heathen Army, but most of it could be summed up concisely:

First, Master Hamme’s advice with extra socks was a welcome one. At least three men in his troop had lost their little toes to frostbite as a bitter winter set in, blanketing their camps and the battlefields in a thick layer of snow that made it difficult to move through. It was only thanks to his lessons learned from Sister Frideswid that kept a good portion of the men from losing entire limbs to infection or frostbite.

Second, he was fonder of the bow than the sword. It made him less sick to the stomach to see a man drop from afar than it was to stare at a man in the eyes as he stabbed him in the chest, though he prayed for forgiveness after each skirmish. Killing a man just because he was wearing a different crest was a completely different feeling compared to beating a troublemaker unconscious and leaving him for the guards to take care of, and it chilled him to the bone colder than any winter could.

Lastly, he missed Lunden with every fiber of his being. Though they were supposed to have been fighting a Great Heathen Army, the regiment he was a part of was tasked to protect the supply lines between camps in Wessex, and they ended up clashing more against bandits and looters from the neighboring kingdoms than actual vikings.

When the Governor of Lunden was felled by an arrow during the siege of Norwich, it did not take long before the King of East Anglia was killed by the viking army and the entire region lost to the horde. King Aelfred, replacing his brother upon his untimely death of King Aethelred the First once Easter came and went with more bloodshed, pulled back their remaining forces and dismissed them from their service. What had originally started as Lunden’s force of 1,000 strong had dwindled to little more than a humbling 200 men by the time they had completed the long and arduous march back to Lunden. Most had scattered to other places unknown upon receiving the last of their coin for their service.

So, when Stowe returned to Lunden after four long years away right as spring began, the city had changed greatly from when he left it.

Namely, the Great Heathen Army had taken over in the absence of a Saxon Governor. Unfamiliar faces of the northerners lined the streets, mixing in with the native-born folk. However, instead of fearful glances and pillaged homes, he found instead a strange sort of ceasefire.

The vikings occupied the city, as if they were residents themselves and traded and bartered with the Saxons. Viking guards with blue-painted shields patrolled, but they hardly paid him any mind as he walked through the streets he knew like the back of his hand. A Norse blacksmith took his coin like any other customer to sharpen his blade and tighten his bowstring. A Dane innkeeper housed him for a night without raising an eyebrow against him, charging him just as much as a usual traveler looking for rest from a long journey.

It was quite surreal, but as Stowe made his way towards Master Hamme’s humble farm just in the outskirts of Lunden, he ran into a face he had not seen in a very long time.

“Master Hamme! Stowe’s back!” A boy almost reaching Stowe’s shoulders in height called out to the farmhouse and dropped the bucket of slop he had been lugging around. “You’re alive!”

Stowe squinted, trying to put a name to the boy’s face. After a moment, it clicked. “Edgar! You’ve shot up like a weed!”

The boy crashed into him with a muddy hug. Stowe squeezed him back with a laugh, setting him down on his feet. “You look well! Where’s your sister?”

The boy’s smile dimmed, his hand going to the back of his neck. “She died not long after you left for the war. The Sister said an infection had set in quick, but we had time for last rites.”

Stowe’s hand fell to the boy’s shoulder. “May God rest her soul.”

“Stowe!” Master Hamme hobbled over, his granddaughter just behind him, helping him stay steady. “By God, lad, the last time I saw you, you were naught but sticks and bones. You’ve returned a sturdy man.”

“All thanks to your blessed sword, Master Hamme.” Stowe unhooked the blade, freshly refinished and bearing more scars than it had started with. “I’ve come back to return it, now that I’m home.”

“Bah, keep it. You’ll find more use for it than me, I’d say.” Master Hamme patted Stowe on the shoulder. “I prayed for you most nights. Glad to know that the Almighty was listening to my ramblings.”

“Thank you for your support, Master Hamme.” Stowe barked a laugh. He gestured to the farmhouse. “Well then, old friend, let’s sit for a while. What have I missed?”

“Now _that_ is a story I’ll need to tell over a cup of ale.”

Master Hamme’s granddaughter glared at her elder. “Grandfather, the Sister said no more ale!”

“What she won’t know won’t kill her—”

“No! Edgar, tell him what the Sister said.”

“Sir, she’s right about that. The Sister said too much would make you sick again, like last winter.”

“I’m as healthy as an ox!”

At the familiar bickering, Stowe shook his head all the way over to the farmhouse.

* * *

After checking on Gyda’s family, who had moved closer to the Lunden docks and were also relieved to see him returned in one piece, Stowe made his way over to the Lundenwic Abbey. He was surprised to see it still standing, looking no worse for wear even years later.

Despite the midday sun shining high in the sky for once, the small church was quiet and devoid of worshippers. A young boy sweeping beneath the pews looked up when he stepped in. “Good day, sir. You’ve just missed service and Father Alric is resting for the moment, though if you like to confess I could wake him.”

“Father Alric? I thought this was Father Osberht’s parish.” Stowe glanced around the interior. Most of the furniture was the same, though at the altar sat a few more pieces of silver than he’d remembered.

“Father Osberht was found sinnin’, sir. The bishop defrocked him a season ago and sent him to the gaol to repent. He died a month back, or so the warden says.”

“Sinning?” Stowe’s eyebrows raised to his hairline.

The boy leaned in close, his voice little more than a whisper. “He’d killed a Brother in a fit of anger by the name of Cynric, God rest his soul.”

“Ehrm, yes, God rest his soul. That’s all I needed to hear. Thank you.” Stowe scrubbed a hand over his eyes as he left, looking upwards into the dark clouds that were starting to gather over Lunden.

He felt guilty at the surge of satisfaction in the back of his mind when he heard what had happened to the Father and the Brother, but somehow found himself lighter in the soul despite it. He resolved to pray a little longer than usual before resting tonight.

* * *

Sister Frideswid was not at the basilica when he arrived. Instead, a pair of Saxon bannermen bearing the crest of King Aelfred barred entry to him.

“Halt. The Sister has not returned yet, so if you are not in mortal harm, leave at once.”

Stowe raised a pacifying hand. “Understood, good sirs. Where may I find her, then? I only wish her well.”

One of the bannermen snorted. “The Sister is speaking with the Danes that have set up in the villa and will not be back for a while yet. We shall see if she is successful in converting those heathens by spring’s end.”

Stowe gave his thanks to the guardsmen before taking off towards the Governor’s Villa. However, as he passed by the market, the angry cry of a Saxon shopkeeper had him immediately turning around to find the source.

The shopkeeper was holding onto the arm of a young boy – dressed in a viking’s tunic – and had a bucher’s knife raised up threateningly.

“Stop!” Shoving his way through a throng of people, Stowe’s feet swiftly took him there in time to keep the man from lowering the butcher knife. “What is the meaning of this?”

“This little fucker stole from me!” The shopkeeper glared at the boy, who glared defiantly back, still trying to tug his arm away. In his other hand was a single apple.

“It’s just an apple.” Stowe turned to the boy, making note of his scrawny frame, dirty clothes, and sallow cheeks – likely an orphan. “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

The boy spat something out in an accent he did not understand. Stowe dug into his coin purse and took out a few silver to pay for the stolen food.

“Here, sir. No need to maim a boy because he’s hungry.”

“Setting a Danish heathen’s debt? You’re a fool, and the stupidest one I’ve seen.” The shopkeep snapped up the silver, regardless and released the boy. “Steal from me again and I’ll take both arms!”

“He’s just a boy, Dane or not.” Stowe watched the boy sprint away, disappearing into the narrow alleys of Lunden without another word.

A great crash of wood and the shrieking of a washwoman had Stowe running over to the other side of the marketplace.

“O Lord, someone, please, help my husband!”

A cart with a broken axle had tipped over, spilling its goods onto the street. A Saxon man was pinned down underneath it, screaming in pain.

Stowe grabbed at the cart, bracing his shoulder against it as he pushed it upwards, heaving with effort.

It was not enough. Stowe released his hold on the cart, his eye scanning quickly over the small crowd that had gathered.

“You and you!” Stowe gestured to a Danish farmer and a Saxon fishmonger, speaking with as much authority as he could muster. “Help me push, now, or this man **will** die!”

The two men were frozen for a moment before coming over to push. With their combined strength, the cart lifted just enough for a crying woman to drag her husband out from underneath. Stowe quickly checked the man’s state: he would be severely bruised and winded, but with how quickly they had recovered him, there had not been enough time for the cart to break his ribs.

“O thank you, thank you.” The woman grasped at Stowe’s hands.

Stowe smiled as reassuringly as he could at the woman before turning to the two men who had helped. They stood there awkwardly, unsure of what to do now. “We are not quite done yet. You two, grab a plank. We will need to transport him to Sister Frideswid’s basilica, whereupon the Sisters would be able to see to him further.” 

The men grabbed a large plank from the overturned cart and Stowe quickly arranged the injured man onto the wood. The farmer and the fishmonger hauled the man up between them with the plank, and Stowe cleared the way, shouting for people to move. The man’s wife followed behind them, frantic.

The two bannermen were still standing at the entry of the basilica, although they were clearly startled by Stowe’s reappearance heralding an injured man.

“A cart fell on him. He will need seeing to as soon as possible.”

The bannermen stepped aside to let them pass. When the injured man was settled in the care of the Sisters, his wife sitting nearby and praying tearfully, Stowe thanked the farmer and the fishmonger. He handed them the last of his coin from his service, split evenly between them.

The Saxon fishmonger took the money and left with a curt nod, but the Danish farmer stayed behind a moment after pocketing the silver.

“You are a strange man, Saxon. I saw you help keep a Dane orphan from a right maiming, and then turned to help one of your own just as easily.”

“I do not like seeing Lunden’s people hurt.” Stowe shrugged a shoulder. He did not think about that – all he had seen were people in need of help.

“Lunden’s people.” The Danish farmer repeated the words a few times, eyebrows furrowed as he walked away.

The bells of a distant church tolled the hour and Stowe realized that it was getting close to early evening. He would need to hurry if he was to find Sister Frideswid before it got too dark to roam about safely.

When he returned to the marketplace, some kind souls had picked up the cart and set it off to the side, all of its goods still sitting inside. Stowe smiled as he passed by, taking a shorter path through the edge of Lunden’s docks.

As he jogged past a small alley formed by the backs of some wood-and-cobble homes, he heard a fierce scuffle taking place.

“Get offa me, you pig-fucker!”

A man’s pained cry rang out.

It was Regna! Stowe immediately ran into the alley, finding the girl surrounded by four Danes.

“Oy!” Stowe shouted. The men turned to look at the interloper. One man was holding his bleeding arm, a bite mark evident in the bared skin. “Let her go and I won’t call the guards on you lot!”

“Oh?” A man with a ragged scar across his face grabbed Regna’s hair. “You and what army, Saxon? Your cowardly King left you, and our great Jarl Tryggr has taken your city – all of this belongs to us, now. Including this pretty little girl.”

“Once more: let her go. You have nothing to gain from hurting her. Leave, now.” Stowe’s fists clenched as he took a step forward.

“Or what?” Regna was shoved to the ground as the Danish warriors stepped forward, cracking their knuckles. The girl scurried back, her sharp eyes already looking up to find a handhold for her to grab in order to escape. Smart girl.

Stowe immediately bent low, grabbing a fistful of dirt and flinging it into their direction, blinding them. Four against one was not good odds, especially against actual vikings, but he would do what he could to make sure that Regna was safe, first.

“Regna, run!”

“Eat shit, you bastards!” The girl immediately took the chance to kick out the knee of the nearest Danish warrior, sending him crashing to the ground with a pained grunt. It took less than a second for her to scramble onto a nearby crate and then grab a handhold in the wall. She was gone in a heartbeat afterwards.

The Danish warriors swiped at their faces, glaring at Stowe. They unsheathed their weapons, axes glinting deadly and sharp in the orange light of sunset. “You’re gonna regret that, Saxon.”

A spear pierced the dirt ground in-between them.

“Gunnar! Herluf! Kjeld! Osfrid!” A young man stood at the top of the alley, his boots planted firmly on the lip of stone. His arms were crossed against his chest, the deep green of his tunic standing out from his leather armor as he scowled down the scene. “What in Baldr’s sack are you dimwits doing?”

One of the Danish warriors spat on the ground. “Fuck off, Bodilsson. This isn’t your fight.”

“No, I do not see a fight.” The young man stepped off the wall and slid down, landing easily. “I see a dishonest slaughter about to happen, on the night of Jarl Tryggr’s being seated as Governor. Do you think the Jarls would glad to hear of this, right after the peace talks have been made?”

“He won’t hear of it, because this piss-stain of a Saxon won’t be alive to say a word!” The Danish warriors turned back around. “Wait—where’d he go?!”

A shadow overhead was his only warning before Stowe crashed down on him from above, boots-first. He rolled off and got to his feet, fists raised. “If you want a brawl, you’ll have one. I already warned you to leave.”

One of the Danish warriors at the back growled. Stowe watched as the Dane in green set his hand down on the man’s shoulder. In the moment the warrior turned around, the young man slugged him across the face with a nasty right hook. The warrior went sprawling back against the wall, holding his mouth.

The Dane in green shook his hand out, grinning. “I’ve always wanted to do that to your ugly mug, Kjeld, you shits-for-brains—”

* * *

“What in Odin’s name is going on here!”

Stowe blearily looked up from where he was being throttled by the last Danish warrior standing. The friendly Dane in green was on the man’s back, his arms around the man’s neck, trying to get him to let go by squeezing all of the air out of him.

The three of them dropped to the ground in a heavy pile when the Danish warrior finally gave into unconsciousness from a lack of breath.

A large, bearish grey-haired man in viking furs stepped into the alley, his dark eyes glancing about the mess.

To the man’s left was a woman dressed similarly, though her hair was still brown in-between the patches of silver just beginning to streak through her braids.

“Jarl Tryggr!” The Dane in green shoved his way to his feet, wiping a sleeve over his bloodied face. “I—we were just, ehrm—”

“Erke.” The older woman looked at the Dane in green, an eyebrow raised. “This is not what I expected to happen when I sent you to find someone.”

“Governor Tryggr.” Stowe hauled himself to his feet, standing as straight as he could despite the ache in his ribs and the blood dripping from his nose. It did not paint a good sight, to be standing above the unconscious bodies of the newly-seated Governor’s clansmen. “These men were trying to hurt the daughter of a friend of mine’s. I could not let that happen. Your men are alive, though likely in need of some rest from the battering.”

“A Saxon with some fire in him, hah. We’ve had many surprises tonight, Bodil. What is one more?” Governor Tryggr snorted at the unconscious warriors, and then gave Stowe an appraising glance. “What is your name?”

“Stowe, of Lundenwic.”

The Governor shared an amused look with the Jarlskona.

“Well met, Stowe of Lundenwic. Come along and follow us to the Villa – it seems the Nornir has set you rightfully in our path. Erke, you as well.”

Stowe tried to read the faces of the older man and woman, but to no avail. In the interest of knowing more about this strange new Danish Governor of Lunden that did not seem overly hostile, he inclined his head. “Aye. Lead the way.”

* * *

During the walk back to the Villa, Erke eyed the odd Saxon as he brought up the rear.

He had gone searching for a man called ‘Stowe’ over the past few hours at the behest of his mother, Jarlskona Bodil. During the peace talks between his mother, Jarl Tryggr, and the bishop overseeing the churches in the city, there had been more than a few mentions of a noteworthy and honest young man who cared for the people of Lunden as it were his own family.

To fulfill the conditions set forth by the bishop to allow for Danish rule and occupation without further bloodshed spilled, they would need to appoint two shire reeves to keep order within the city limits: one Danish and one city-born.

Erke had been offered up for the position (as a gesture of good will) by his mother, as his older brothers, Bjorn and Thor, were slated to accompany Jarl Hemming to Snotinghamscire and help fight against the Picts by next year’s summer, once they’ve solidified their foothold in Lunden. Erke had accepted, knowing that his clan’s alliance with Jarl Tryggr’s was expected to extend to this opportunity as well, given how far they have come from Denmark.

Sister Frideswid, a powerful figure within the city’s native Saxon community, had strongly championed this ‘Stowe’ for the position after rumors of his return to Lunden surfaced.

Erke did not know what to expect from a Christ-follower fresh from King Aelfred’s retreat back to Wincestre, but he had seen the man jump in to stop a shopkeeper from lopping off the arm of a Danish orphan. Minutes later, he had commanded the peasantry easily to help an injured man get to safety. He had raised fists up against armed Danish warriors without the intention of killing them, unlike what they were going to do to him had they the chance.

Whatever his thoughts before, it was certainly not of a man younger than he was, with tousled dark hair and kind eyes that seemed too trusting for his own good.

As the man wiped at his bloody nose, he had turned his head to look at Erke for a brief moment. It was a curious look at first, before a lopsided grin pulled at his busted lips.

Immediately averting his gaze, Erke felt an unfamiliar warmth building in his chest, his heart fluttering like the wings of a newborn chick.

* * *

“Stowe, the city of Lunden would be humbled if you were to serve as our reeve.” Sister Frideswid rested her hand on the young man’s shoulder for a moment before letting go and stepping aside. Years ago, he was hardly taller than her waist, but now he was broad-shouldered and a full head taller than she was.

Stowe stared at the officials clustered in the main hall of the Villa, rather stupefied, at the offer being laid at his feet.

“You are a man of the city and known for your sound judgement and helpful nature. The people have chosen you as their shepherd, and I will allow it.” Governor Tryggr gestured a hand at Stowe and the clergymen who were standing nervously by the door.

Stowe looked at the faces in the chamber, both familiar and unfamiliar. This was his calling, he knew. He knelt down to one knee and bowed his head. “You are a fair Dane, lord. I’ll be honored to help keep Lunden in order as its shire reeve, Governor Tryggr.”

The Governor inclined his head and then turned his gaze to the Dane in green, who hastily knelt down as well.

“Erke Bodilsson, youngest son of Jarlskona Bodil and stalwart friend to my clan, you will serve as a fine reeve for this city.”

“I am honored, my Jarl and Governor.” The Dane in green bowed his head.

“Now, with that settled – bring in the ale! It is time for celebrations!”

* * *

The first rays of day were starting to light the night sky when Erke was finally able to escape from the drunken uproar that had overtaken the Governor’s Villa and return to the home he shared with his mother and brothers in the eastern borough of labyrinthine city. As he readied himself for a scant few hours of rest, he pulled out the tarnished ring that had followed him from Denmark to the rocky shores of England and now, to a strange place called Lunden he would be calling home for the foreseeable future. To keep the gift his mother had given him safe, he kept it on a simple chain around his neck.

Erke ran his thumb over the inscription inside, still unsure of its meaning, but it soothed him all the same until sleep claimed him.

Across the city and in the western borough, Stowe set down his traveling pack as he settled against the steeple of Saint Paul’s Cathedral, watching the slumbering city below. He wrapped his cloak around himself, pressing his clasped hands together as he murmured quietly to himself.

“God and King, by your mercy, pardon the sins of your faithful servants Osberht and Cynric. Deliver them from all the bonds of the enemy, that they may cling to your commandments with all their hearts, and always love you alone with all their strength, and one day be counted with your blessed ones. Through Christ, our Lord, amen.”

When he was done praying, Stowe drew up his knees to his chest and pressed his cheek against them. To unburden the soul was a heavy thing, but he could only look forward, now.


	5. CHAPTER 5 – Year c. 870 A CITY BUILT OF MANY PIECES

“Stowe, you shit-bucket, slow down!”

“Faster, Erke! They’re getting away!”

The younger man disappeared around a corner, a little more than a flash of dark hair among the crowd. Erke groaned and pushed himself to run faster as he and his fellow reeve chased a pair of horse thieves through Lunden’s growing marketplace.

Whereas Stowe dodged and slid between stalls and carts with the ease of someone who lived most of their life in the city, Erke bludgeoned his way through most of it, shouting belated apologies as civilians dove out of his path of unintentional destruction.

It was mildly embarrassing, really, to be shown up by this city boy that was only a year younger and a half-head shorter than him. However, despite the bawdy ribbing from his older brothers at how he was near-constantly shadowing the Saxon reeve to keep him from getting into trouble he could not brawl his way out, he did not find it so bad to work with him—

—unless Stowe was doing something foolish again, like right now.

The horse thieves, upon being stopped by a dead-end alley, had decided to scale up a wall, getting onto the roof of a house. Stowe was scrambling up not too far behind, hauling himself up easily with a fluid grace. He turned back to reach a hand out to Erke, his eyes gleaming bright and with cheeks flushed from exertion.

For a fleeting moment, Erke wondered what it would feel like to kiss him.

“Come on!”

Erke grabbed his hand, using the help to get onto the roof. The horse thieves were hopping roofs now, though it was easier to find them now than compared to when they were scampering through the crowds.

When he got close enough, Stowe tackled one of the thieves, landing in a tangle of flailing limbs. The other horse thief pulled out something from the back of his trousers, and it glinted in the sunlight.

Erke didn’t think – he threw himself at the horse thief, and both of them sailed off the roof and onto an unyielding pile of crates that smashed beneath their combined weight.

The horse thief was unconscious from the force, but Erke was not. He sat up, intending to get to his feet so he could tie up the man.

A pulsing pain in his leg stopped him from going much further than that. His eyes widened when he could see his shin bone, cracked from the fall and poking out from his skin. The leg of his trousers was soaking in blood, the red spreading quickly. “For fuck’s sake—"

“Erke?” Stowe peered out from beyond the lip of the roof. He dropped down quickly. “O Lord, stay still.”

“I… I don’t think I’m going… anywhere.”

The last thing Erke saw before passing out was Stowe’s terrified face hovering above him, saying something he did not catch.

* * *

Erke woke up to the sharp tang of herbal remedies in the air, along with a dull ache in his head and leg. His blurry vision eventually adjusted, revealing the interior of a Christian basilica. To his bedside, a familiar head of dark hair was bent over folded hands, whispering in Latin.

Erke groaned, raising a hand to his head. Stowe’s head immediately jerked up, relief lining his shoulders as he reached over to take Erke’s hand and press it back down to the bedsheet to keep him from disturbing his bandages. When he moved to let go, Erke turned his hand around and tightened his grip around his fingers.

A fetching shade of pink ghosted over Stowe’s cheeks, though he did not move again his hand again.

“I brought you to Sister Frideswid’s. She helped set your leg and numb it with a mixture. You also hit your head hard on the landing, so you’ve a nice goose egg on the side. No fever though, so that is a good sign that infection has not set in. I had some guards take care of the horse thieves.”

The door to the basilica’s resting room opened, and immediately Stowe cut off his nervous babbling and shifted his hand away as he turned to look at who came inside. Immediately, Erke mourned the loss of the warmth, though the sight of Governor Tryggr striding through a Christian church was definitely something he did not expect.

The grey-haired man stopped at the foot of the bed, the tense line on his shoulders immediately relaxing when he could see that both of them were no worse for wear. “My best reeves, defeated by two horse thieves!”

“It was my fault, Governor.” Stowe immediately stood up, head bowed solemnly. “I did not see that one of the thieves had a knife, and Erke had to—”

“None of that Christian guilt, Stowe. We’ve the best healers in Lunden, Erke will be fine.” The Governor set a steady hand on the younger man’s head, ruffling his hair. The old man turned to raise an eyebrow at the Dane. “When I return to the Villa, I will assure your mother that you are resting fine in the care of the Sisters and Stowe.”

“Thank you, Governor.” Erke wisely did not ask why Governor Tryggr was in the area – the man had many mistresses, after all. However, despite telling Erke bluntly about this months ago after he had caught him in a compromising position, the older man had wished to keep Stowe ignorant of that particular fact. The Governor was quite fond of Stowe, treating the Lunden-born orphan like a son at times, and had wished to keep the kind-hearted man innocent of some things if he could.

The Governor left shortly after that, patting Erke’s non-injured leg with a calloused hand as he winked at him. Stowe did not see that, too concerned with tucking the sheets around the other reeve a bit more.

Erke glanced around the basilica’s resting room. There were hardly any other patients at this time, which either meant it was a good day in Lunden, or a bad one that filled yet another one of its churchyards.

“Rest, Erke.” Stowe sat back down in his chair, smiling softly. “I’ll be here.”

Erke leaned back, tired and aching. Rest sounded good.

He fell asleep to the touch of another’s fingers against him, tucked underneath the blanket.

* * *

After a month, as spring gained traction and brought with it plenty of rain, Erke found himself walking steadily on two legs as if one had never been broken in the first place.

He had never been so grateful for the strength of his legs now, as he hauled the wrapped bodies of his older brothers and mother to their combined funeral pyre just outside of Lunden. What remained of his clan – a handful of warriors who survived the fevers and chills or somehow avoided it entirely – stood by solemnly as they lit the wood with their torches, sending them off with flames.

A plague had come to Lunden a month before his brothers were to leave for Snotinghamscire. Many more within the city, Danes and Saxons alike, died in heaps too quickly for the survivors to bury.

“Ride the path of wood-smoke to the All-Father’s hall of champions, my brothers. Mother, you shall see father again, and fight side-by-side for eternal glory in Valhalla.”

As the smoke burned at his dried eyes, a heavy hand rested gently on his shoulder. Erke turned to see Governor Tryggr at his side, his face grim. In his other hand, he held out a silver clan ring – the one his mother had given to Tryggr many years ago, before they left Denmark in search of a new home. Erke took the silver clan ring, the aged token gleaming in the light of the flickering flames.

“To repay her life debt, your mother honored me until the end, Erke. Your clan is your own, now, to do as you see fit.”

Erke fingers tightened around the ring. His vision blurred as he got down onto a knee and held back out the clan ring. He wanted none of this – the only thing he needed right now was in Lundenwic Abbey, soothing the sick and dying with gentle hands and a soft sparrow-heart.

He was more a son of Lunden than he was a Danish viking, now. 

“Jarl Tryggr, I pledge my loyalty and my clan to your care, as my mother did and my ancestors before me. Call upon us in your time of need and we will answer.”

“Rise, Erke, son of Bodil, my cherished friend.” Jarl Tryggr helped the younger man to his feet. The old man’s eyes were sad as he closed Erke’s fingers around the silver. He did not take it back, though he clapped his free hand onto the younger man’s shoulder, squeezing tightly. “Tonight, we mourn together, our clans as one. Your mother would be proud of the man you have become.”

The fires consumed the last of his blood family. A newly-made orphan watched as the smoke drifted into the skies, joining the other dozens of pyres built around the city for its plague-ridden victims.

* * *

Stowe coughed wetly into his sleeve as he entered Lundenwic Abbey’s gaols, a prison underneath the church, a lantern in one hand and a handbell in another.

The stench of the dying permeated the entire place. Men and women groaned from their cramped conditions, as thin as skeletons. The plague had swept through all of city before spring had ended and had claimed many of the priests and sisters themselves. Those who were left were doing what they could for their lost parishes.

The bells of Lunden had been silent for weeks, too many sick or dying or dead to deal with to spare a hand to count the hours of grief and suffering that stretched infinitely ahead.

“Reeve… let me out…” A man choked from where he was on the floor, his body wracked with coughs. “I’m dying… I just wish to see the sun, one… last… time…”

Stowe set the lantern down on a chair, casting the gaols into a deep shadow. He breathed sharply, feeling tears prickle in the corners of his eyes as he rung the handbell.

“There is no available priest for your last rites, so I will stand in his stead. _All you that in the condemned hole do lie, prepare you for tomorrow you shall die. Watch all and pray: the hour is drawing near, that you before the Almighty must appear. Examine well yourselves in time repent, so that you may not to eternal flames be sent. When the bell in the morning tolls, the Lord above have mercy on your soul._ ”

The dying moans of the prisoners followed him as he left the gaols, even far beyond the heavy doors. He murmured a psalm to himself quietly as he hurried through the ghostly streets. Not far from Erke’s home in the eastern borough, Stowe had to stagger into an alleyway as his stomach churned.

He heaved out bile that was black as his hair.

Stowe stared blearily at the mess, feeling a dread settling in his bones. He could not stand idly by while others suffered, but now, it seemed, that it would be his turn to run the gauntlet of the Lord’s cruel test of their faith.

“Stowe?” His vision swam as he turned his head. An angel with braided hair and a green tunic had a hand outstretched towards him.

Then, the world tipped out from underneath his feet, and he knew nothing more.


	6. CHAPTER 6 – Year c. 870 MERCY

Heat.

Hurt.

Everything hurt.

Was this what Hell felt like?

He tried to pray, but he could not feel his lips moving.

The words slipped from him and into the dark.

He was scared.

A sound! He could hear… singing?

He knew this voice.

He was not alone.

The Lord sent His angel to keep watch over him.


	7. CHAPTER 7 – Year c. 870 BELOVED OF MINE

Erke sat back heavily in his chair, dipping a rag into a bowl of cool water. He had long since given up on braiding his hair back, keeping it pulled back plainly away from his face. Dark circles marked his eyes, but he would not allow himself to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time.

He was scared to blink at times.

Six days. Stowe had been bedridden six long days, feverish and vomiting out what little water he was able to get him to swallow in the brief moments he was awake.

Only now, did the fever seem to finish its run. He was shaking less and the incoherent whispers of mixed Latin and English had stopped.

Erke pressed the wet rag against Stowe’s forehead, wiping away the sweat. His free hand rested over the younger man’s heart, feeling the sluggish heartbeat against his palm. It was unnatural to feel it so slow and weak, instead of a steady thump like the rapid wingbeats of a sparrow.

“You are going to live, you hear me, my Stowe?” Erke brushed aside the sweaty-soaked hair that had grown in a bit. “You’re not going to your Christian Heaven just yet, not like this. Not when I haven’t…”

Stowe sighed in his sleep, the lines in his forehead creased. From pain or stress, Erke did not know.

Erke shifted the man over a little, so he could climb into the bed as well, settling next to him. He pressed his face against the crook of the mother man’s neck and began to sing quietly, a song his mother used to lull him to sleep.

“ _It’s a cold, dark day, Hel’s door is ajar,  
Little cubs of mine, don’t stray too far.  
It’s a cold, dark day, come sit by the hearth,  
Come hear of the tales, from before your birth.  
O’er the mountains, o’er the seas, the flame of Surtr grows…”_

* * *

On the seventh day, Stowe opened his eyes and saw Erke’s head, pillowed against his shoulder as he slept the sleep of the exhausted.

He shifted his free arm up a little. He just wanted to touch the other man, to make sure that this wasn’t a dream.

Erke snorted himself awake at the slight motion, sitting up immediately. His eyes were wild as he laughed brokenly, tears in his eyes as he dug his fingers into Stowe’s shoulders.

“You idiot. Don’t fucking do this to me again, you hear?”

Stowe opened his mouth to speak, but found that it was as dry as a desert.

“Here. Small sips.” Erke grabbed a glass of water and brought it to his lips. 

After drinking his fill, Stowe licked at his cracked lips. “Erke…”

“Ja?” The man shifted closer.

“You… look… stupid…” Stowe closed his eyes, smiling weakly. He was still so tired. “I’ll… fix your… hair… tomorrow…”

“Ja, I’ll even wash it beforehand, how’s that?” As the man fell back to sleep, Erke put his hand over Stowe’s chest, feeling the stronger thrumming of his heart underneath. He turned his head, finally letting his tears fall as he wiped them away.

Stowe was alive. There was no more need for tears, now.


	8. CHAPTER 8 – Year c. 870 THE BELLS FROM SAINT PAUL’S

The warm summer months marked the end of the plague that beset Lunden and killed half of its people.

Life continued. Slowly, trade returned to the city’s port, bringing in much-needed supplies. New blood from all around – Norse, Danish, Finnish, Saxon, and then some – came in and filled the empty spaces left behind. Under Governor Tryggr’s fair and steady leadership, the city grew slowly back into its former self.

Stowe watched people in the streets below hurry back to their homes as night fell, the balmy weather a nice change for once. He sat in the windowsill of Saint Paul’s steeple, lost in thought.

In the distance, the bell of Lundenwic Abbey sounded the hour.

It was the Lord’s miracle that he was up and about, breathing in fresh air to fill his lungs entirely, the rattling only noticeable when he really listened for it.

In the spare moments he was himself during his fever, he recalled very little except for that Erke was there by his side the entire time.

Stowe had wanted to live. He’d begged with every fiber of his being to wake up to see another dawn. Erke told him that he had been praying in his sleep, slurring Latin and English together into broken psalms.

Stowe remembered nothing of what he said, but everything of what he felt.

He had prayed to live, but not in the service of the Lord.

He prayed to live, because he did not want to leave Erke all alone by himself so soon after the passing of his mother and older brothers, God rest their souls.

It felt… it felt like a betrayal of his faith in the Lord, but at the same time, he could not imagine a life without the other man at all. The past few months with the man by his side, helping him recover from the plague, had shown him the truth.

Stowe watched as a bright and full moon peered out from behind a wispy cloud, so brilliant against a blanket of stars.

He could not hide it, now. He loved him – he loved Erke. The scriptures said his love was wrong, but how could it be, when the Lord loved all His children, as He molded them in His shape?

Stowe resolved not to ask for forgiveness from the church. Only he would answer to the Lord when the time came, but not a moment before, because surely the Almighty would not send Erke to him if He did not already know what would grow between them?

“Fuck, this is a long climb.”

Stowe turned his head, seeing Erke hauling himself up the last of the ladder with a grumpy mumble. He couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips. “This is a House of the Lord, Erke.”

“Right, forgot I was a dirty heathen – sorry, Stowe’s God.” Erke sat down next to Stowe tiredly, rubbing at his eyes with his left hand. “So, you said you wanted to speak to me about something?”

“Yes, I did.” Stowe looked at the other man. They have known each other for a little more than a year now and they could scarcely be seen apart. On the rare occasions that they were parted for more than an hour, Stowe found himself sometimes absently turning to mention something to his partner, only to remember that he was in fact busy elsewhere.

“And…?” Erke’s blue-gray eyes were so clear in the moonlight. To think, they belonged to a man whose clan had come into his home and turned it upside down, once. Now, they held all of his love.

“I love you, Erke.”

Erke’s mouth opened and closed, wordless for a moment. For a heart-stopping moment, Stowe thought he had ruined everything, but then Erke reached out and cupped his face in his hands, unusually gentle as he leaned in and kissed him so softly.

When they parted, Erke murmured against his lips, “I love you, my sparrow-heart, my Stowe.”

Tucked against each other in the shadows of Saint Paul’s steeple, they kissed the night away.


	9. CHAPTER 9 – Year c. 873 SILVER-SPUN FATE

Saint Paul’s Cathedral is burning around them, and it all Stowe can do is cough and cough as the smoke gets into his lungs, searing him from the inside out. His eyes are stinging and watering as he chokes, gasping for air.

“Eivor, make for the steeple!” Somehow, Stowe manages to shout at their newfound ally, who has already started climbing.

He and Erke would not be able to follow the warrior up – they would have to find another way out of the church. Erke tugs him along, keeping them pressed close together as tightly as possible as they dodge flaming debris. Fire licks at their boots as they narrowly avoid being crushed underneath the iron-wrought chandelier. Stowe can feel himself faltering, he can’t get enough air–

“The Nornir still spun for us, my Stowe. We’ve many years yet.” Erke spends a single, heart-stopping moment to press their foreheads together, eyes wild at the danger, before dragging him towards the doorway. “Come on!”

The door handle refuses to budge, rattling stubbornly in Stowe’s grip. He and Erke share a grim look – they were blocked in, to burn inside the church like their own personal Hell.

The clanging of metal against metal and the screams of men in pain gave them enough focus to think. As one, they banged against the doors with their shoulders. After the third try, the door burst open and glorious air rushed inside, a stark difference against the heat of the flames.

Eivor stood before them, covered head to toe in blood and a pile of corpses behind them. “The Compass is here. We must hurry!”

* * *

With the Compass defeated, the Frankish Captain’s ships sinking into their watery graves in the Lunden harbor, Erke brushed off a spot of soot and blood from Stowe’s cheek. “Alright, sparrow-heart?”

“All good.” Stowe stood up straight as Eivor Wolf-Kissed wandered over, pocketing a familiar silver medallion.

The Order of Ancients – Sister Frideswid, Avgos Spearhand… people that Lunden embraced during their stay, only to burn from betrayal and so much death…

And, for what? Stowe may never know in this life, or the next – he was just glad that whatever they were plotting in Lunden was now over.

“There you are, the drengr we must thank for our good fortune.” Erke greeted the Norse warrior with a clasp of his arm.

“How do I look? Half-drowned and half-burnt?” The Norse warrior smiled warmly at the two of them, sopping wet from the swim back onto dry land but looking hale and healthy.

“Not half of either, and far better for the blood on your blade.” Stowe dragged long piece of seaweed off Eivor and let it fall onto the ground with a squelch.

“The Compass is dead. Lunden is yours… to wreck or rebuild.” Eivor seemed pensive, looking between the two men questioningly.

“We will rebuild.” Erke glanced at Stowe, who nodded in affirmation and support. “We’ll strengthen the walls, reunite families… and likely use less wood, more stone.”

Stowe nudged at the other reeve with a gentle touch, and then gestured at the still-burning view of Lunden behind them. “Ill-timed, Erke. I’d like a quiet moment to pray.”

Those who did not escape the raging inferno that was The Compass’s retribution weighed heavily on him. There would be a lot to do in the coming days, weeks, months…

“We’ll take it together.” Erke’s hand came down on Stowe’s shoulder, a comforting weight.

“Until our next meeting. I trust you will heed my call if I should send for you?” Eivor scratched at the back of their head, flicking away another piece of seaweed that had caught on a braid.

“You came to Lunden in search of a friend, Eivor. You found two.”

“Aye, broga. And, you deserve this.” Erke took a step forward, taking out the silver clan ring he had kept tucked in his pockets for safe keeping for three years. As one of the last of the original Danes that came to Lunden during Tryggr’s time, it fell upon him to offer this alliance, now. “It was Tryggr’s before he gifted it to me. I say you’ve earned the right to wear it now.”

“I’m touched, Erke. I will carry it with pride.” Smiling sadly, Eivor took the silver clan ring with a reverent touch, as if they knew full-well the value of the many lives and deaths that came with it.

The two Lunden reeves watched the Norse warrior head off towards their longship. Stowe turned to look at Erke, and then back at the fires. “Should we muster the men?”

“Aye, those fires aren’t going to put themselves out.” Erke nodded.

Together, they set to work, putting out the fires and carrying the injured to safety. Though Sister Frideswid was gone, the other Sisters were of a big help in helping those they could and soothing the ones that they could not save.

By the time they returned to Erke’s home in the eastern borough, the house having escaped the blaze in a stroke of luck, distant bells rang out the hour.

It was already dawn of the next day.

“Stowe, come here.” In the privacy of his home, Erke gestured for the other man to wander over to the hearth.

“Hmm? What is it?” Stowe yawned, his tunic already half-off his head. He shrugged it back on, wriggling his arm back through the sleeve. 

When he got close enough, Erke took his hands – freshly washed from soot and blood – and pressed his lips to each knuckle. Then, he reached underneath his own tunic and pulled off the thin silver chain he had worn for almost all of his life.

The old silver ring gleamed in the flickering light. Erke pressed this into Stowe’s open palm, curling his fingers around it. “I may be the last of my clan and of my blood, but not even Lunden in flames will keep me from your side.”

Stowe turned the silver ring around in his fingers, his eyes catching on the inscription on the inside.

 _Wyrd_ , carved in a painfully familiar hand, along with a small cross – the Old English word for _fate_ and _destiny_.

“Where did you get this?” Stowe looked at Erke, who looked apprehensive.

“My mother, when she first came to Lunden, said she found a Saxon woman fighting off a looter with nothing but her fists and teeth. When she felled the looter with his sword, the woman fled with her child to one of your churches, but dropped this ring in her place.”

“This…” Stowe traced the carving, pressing the skin of his thumb against the worn edges. “This was my mother’s ring. I recognize the engraving.”

Erke turned a terrible shade of sheet-white once he realized what that meant, but Stowe calmed his lover with a soft look, cupping his jaw with his free hand. He pressed his lips to Erke’s forehead, softly.

“Erke, this means that my mother has been watching over you from Heaven this entire time. If this ring has traveled so far and long back to me, held this entire time by a man I would grow to love, I believe that the Lord has always intended for us to meet.” Stowe smiled that same boyish, sweet smile that sent Erke’s heart fluttering.

Erke raised his hand, curling his fingers into the other man’s dark hair guiding their lips into a kiss as the metal of the silver ring warmed between their palms.


End file.
